Velocity Investments, LLC v. Deanna Wright

Let’s get one thing straight: nobody wakes up dreaming of being sued for $24,059.32 over a loan they probably forgot they took out in 2021—especially not on a random Tuesday in rural Jackson County, Oklahoma. But Deanna Wright did just that, or at least she will when the papers arrive, because Velocity Investments, LLC—the kind of company that sounds like a rejected Bond villain plot—has decided it’s time to get medieval on her credit score.

Now, before you go imagining some dramatic showdown in a dusty courthouse with fiddles playing and a judge in a ten-gallon hat, let’s set the scene. This isn’t Yellowstone. This is Jackson County, population barely enough to field a high school football team. And Deanna Wright? We don’t know if she raises goats, teaches third grade, or moonlights as a rodeo clown. All we know is she once took out a loan from LendingClub Bank—yes, the same LendingClub that used to be all over Facebook ads promising you a “fresh start” with a personal loan that felt suspiciously easy to get. April 15, 2021? That’s right in the thick of pandemic-era “I need $25,000 to buy a truck and a hot tub” energy. Maybe Deanna needed a new roof. Maybe she consolidated debt. Maybe she finally bought that alpaca farm. We may never know. But what we do know is that at some point, she stopped paying.

Enter Velocity Investments, LLC—a debt buyer, which is corporate-speak for “the person who buys your overdue bills for pennies on the dollar and then sues you for the full amount.” These companies are the vultures of the financial world: they don’t lend you money when you’re desperate; they swoop in after you’re already drowning and say, “Hey, we own your pain now.” Velocity didn’t give Deanna a single dime. They didn’t sit across from her at a kitchen table, hand over a stack of cash, and say, “We believe in you.” No. They bought her defaulted loan contract from LendingClub Bank—likely for a fraction of its face value—and now they’re playing hardball, like a guy who buys a foreclosure for $50,000 and immediately lists it for $300,000.

The math is simple: they probably paid, say, $6,000 for the debt. Now they’re suing for $24,059.32. That’s a 300% markup, baby. And they’ve got lawyers—fancy ones, too, from Rausch Sturm LLP, a firm that proudly lists itself as “Attorneys in the Practice of Debt Collection,” which is like a restaurant advertising “We specialize in canned soup.” Their guy, Michael Kidman, OBA #35912 (because nothing says trust like a bar number), is filing this thing from Wisconsin, which means this entire lawsuit is being run out of a cubicle 700 miles away from Deanna’s front porch. There’s no personal beef here. There’s no face-to-face confrontation. It’s just a spreadsheet entry with a name attached.

So what actually happened? Well, according to the filing—this dry, legal document that reads like a robot wrote it after reading one John Grisham novel—Deanna “defaulted on the contract,” which has since been “accelerated by its terms.” Legal speak for: she missed payments, the lender said “screw it, pay everything now,” and when she didn’t, they sold the debt to Velocity, who then hired a law firm in Wisconsin to sue her in Oklahoma. It’s like a game of financial hot potato, except the potato is someone’s life savings.

Now, why are they in court? Because Velocity wants a judgment—a court order saying, “Yes, Deanna Wright owes this money.” That’s important, because once you have a judgment, you can start garnishing wages, freezing bank accounts, or even putting a lien on property. And get this: the petition actually asks the court to order the Oklahoma Employment Security Commission (OESC) to hand over Deanna’s employment history. That’s right—Velocity wants the state to tell them where she works, presumably so they can figure out how much they can squeeze out of her paycheck. It’s not just about the money; it’s about the leverage. This isn’t a lawsuit. It’s a reconnaissance mission disguised as civil procedure.

And what do they want? $24,059.32. Is that a lot? Depends on who you are. If you’re a hedge fund in Delaware, that’s a rounding error. If you’re Deanna Wright, living in Jackson County, where the median household income is around $45,000, that’s over half a year’s salary. That’s a used car. That’s a year of daycare. That’s a lot of alpaca feed. And remember—Velocity probably didn’t pay anywhere near that to buy the debt. So even if they settle for $12,000, they’re laughing. Meanwhile, Deanna’s stuck explaining to a judge why she didn’t pay a loan she may not even remember signing.

Here’s the wildest part: this case is routine. This is not a murder mystery. There’s no twist. No secret affair. No hidden will. Just a woman, a loan, and a corporate entity that doesn’t care who she is—only what she owes. And yet, it’s fascinating. Because this? This is how modern debt works. It’s not banks knocking on doors. It’s PDFs filed at 2 a.m., law firms with call center vibes, and people getting sued by companies that didn’t lend them a single dime. It’s clean, it’s legal, and it’s utterly soulless.

We’re entertainers, not lawyers, but here’s our take: the most absurd thing isn’t that Deanna got sued. It’s that Velocity Investments, LLC thinks it’s heroic to do so. Look at their petition. They quote statutes. They swear under penalty of perjury. They cite Oklahoma law like they’re defending the Constitution. But this isn’t justice. This is financial jiu-jitsu—using the court system to monetize someone else’s hard times. And the kicker? They even include that little FTC-mandated disclaimer at the bottom: This is a communication from a debt collector. As if to say, “Don’t worry, we’re allowed to do this.”

Do we root for Deanna? Sure, in the way you root for the cockroach that survives the nuclear blast. She may have missed payments. She may have ignored notices. But she’s a person. And Velocity? They’re a spreadsheet with a law degree. So yeah, we’re rooting for the human—even if she did maybe buy that alpaca farm with borrowed money. At least she had a dream. Meanwhile, Velocity Investments just has a balance sheet.

And that, folks, is how you lose a war you didn’t even know you were fighting—over $24,059.32 and a piece of paper that used to be a loan.